Mind Your Manners
by Gorshenin
Summary: Quinntina - Serial Killers


Standard disclaimer to Glee.

* * *

The roast smells delicious. The aroma floats through a lavish kitchen. Countertops are a pristine marble, the appliances a shining state of the art and it's a shame this kitchen hasn't been used to its full potential in a very long time. There have been no staccato chops of a knife against a cutting board, or warm heat of a cooling stove.

Not since Mrs. Wallace was alive.

This kitchen has been neglected, mistreated, and unloved.

Much like Mrs. Wallace, when she was alive.

The dining room is lovely, the décor a nod to the late woman of the house. The table would have looked nicer with a tablecloth, but the formal cloth napkins and eloquent table settings will suffice. The silver shines in soft candle light and quiet music plays in the background.

Everything is just right, nice and tidy.

Everything except Mr. Wallace.

Though dressed in his best, he looks worse for wear. The pressed shirt and slacks, watch and matching cufflinks, can't hide that Mr. Wallace is a bit of a mess.

You on the other hand, feel very put together in your floral day dress, knitted cardigan, and heels. Your blonde hair is styled very particularly, makeup light and sensible, and you feel very pretty. You feel like the very best version of yourself.

"Richard, you're sweating through your good sport coat."

Wild eyes search around the room for the owner of the voice. Hands and feet strain desperately in their zip-tie restraints. His face is drenched in cold sweat, breath heavy and labored through his nose, a muffled plea is lost behind the thick tape over his mouth.

Mr. Wallace is terrified, as he should be.

His shoulders are shaking and you can tell he's even afraid to move his head to look around. For a bit of a lark, you reach out and touch his collar. His thick neck trembles away from your touch. You only dig your fingers in deeper, leaning over his shoulder to slide his dinner onto the placemat.

The aim is to intimidate him, and it works. He quakes beneath your hand and the whimper that escapes him goes so well with the evening's musical arrangement.

"Dear, your supper is ready."

It's a beautiful meal. Meat, greens, and side all perfectly proportioned on the plate. The presentation is immaculate.

Everything a wife can offer.

Of course, you're not Mr. Wallace's wife. No, she died about six months ago and the circumstances of that death have everything do with why you're here. Mr. Wallace might be known to drink too much, and Mrs. Wallace might have had one or more trip to the emergency room under her belt before she succumb to a rather unfortunate tumble down the staircase. The conclusions to be drawn are circumstantial at best.

But you are certain of one thing.

You lean over his shoulder, toy with his necktie, and whisper in his ear, "I'm going to kill you."

* * *

"I'm surprised you can still smile after your client was just condemned to life in prison."

You look up from your phone and find one of the only friendly faces you know in this courthouse. Tina Cohen-Chang, the stenographer that you've had the pleasure of becoming casual friends with, is this building's saving grace. In a world of power suits and ego, this woman is a breath of fresh air. On more than one occasion you've slipped away from the folly of listening to your associates coach guilty men into a perfectly innocent testimonies, to walk down the hall and find her on break with the other civil workers.

It's gotten to the point where you don't even have to say anything, all you have to do is give her a private look, sit down on one of the courthouse's cheap lounge chairs, and she'll jump right into a synopsis of the latest book she's been reading, or the last art gallery she's visited. You love listening to her. You love hearing the honest conviction in her voice when she tells you how a particular painting made her feel. You enjoy the interpretations she has of certain authors compared to others.

You love that she's sincere and pure hearted. You don't know how she not only bears witness to, but records these grisly murder trials. It never seems to bother her, and you have always been impressed by her resilience. There's a strength in her eyes that's always intrigued you.

You'd like to see what she's like under pressure, to see her toe the limits of comfort.

"That was _the firm's_ client," you correct with a satisfied smile, watching her struggle to find something in her purse as you wait for the parking garage elevator. "He made it explicitly clear he didn't want a woman mucking up his defense so I've been hands off through the entire trial."

The elevator bell dings and you let her step into it first. She pushes the correct floor levels without needing to ask because, much like yourself, Tina is a creature of habit. She has always parked on the same level and you've always parked one flight down.

"What a jerk!" she smiles at you, confident that if you would have been at the reigns, he would be a free name right now. You're so flattered that you choose to forget the moral implications of working to protect usually guilty men from justice. "I bet he's kicking himself right now—ah!"

The strap of her purse slips off her elbow and falls to the floor, spilling a few items around the elevator floor.

You laugh quietly and stoop to help gather her belongings, "Probably not actually. I bet the only regret he has right now is not choosing the right group of men to throw his money at."

She considers your words, catching your eye as she takes the lip gloss you're holding out, "You don't think he regrets killing his girlfriend."

Her words, while containing every syllable needed to form one, don't sound like a question. Her eyes ask the real question. She wants to know how you can be so sure. She wants to know if it bothers you, as it would bother any rational human being.

Luckily for you, the answer to both the implied and literal question is, "Not a chance in hell."

The elevator stops and you both stand. This is her stop. She readjusts her purse over her shoulder, and hasn't looked away from your eyes once.

"Have a good night, Quinn."

"You too, Tina."

The door closes and you let out the breath you had been holding. That woman gets under your skin like no one else. When the doors open at your floor and you start to step out, your foot catches against a bit of resistance. You look down and frown at Tina's car keys.

Quickly, you snatch up the keys and head over to the staircase on your right. Hopefully you can make it to her floor before she tries the elevator again. You take the stairs as quickly as your office appropriate heels will take you and push through the door one flight up. It's late, the parking lot is very empty and half the lights are either broken or flickering.

"Tina?"

The name echoes around unforgiving concrete structure and your heels clack sharply in the air. You hear an unfamiliar voice.

"You need a ride, I gotta a car, I don't see the problem."

You find them around the bend, in the farthest corner of parking garage, well away from the security cameras and the emergency exits. She's standing near the driver's door, still fishing in her purse while some man in a suit leans too casually against the hood. You don't waste any time making your way over.

She's too busy eyeing him to notice you, "I don't—"

"Maybe we could grab a bite on the way to my place."

"No, really—"

"You lost your keys so I bet you're locked out of your place, too."

"Could you—"

"I can help you at with that too, you're more than welcome to crash with me."

"Hey, if you would shut your mouth for two seconds," you cut in harshly, taking a spot next to your friend, "I'm pretty sure she's telling you to get lost, so."

You make a dismissive gesture, cutting across the parking lot like a flick of your wrist could throw him into the opposite corner. He sucks on his bottom lip in a sickeningly lewd manner and his eyes follow along with a trip to your heels and back.

"_Now,"_ Tina tacks on bluntly.

He finally gets the hint and pushes off the car, but not before he gives Tina one last wink.

"If that's how you want to play it, I guess I'll just… catch up with you later," he says it like he knows it's certain. Like this isn't over.

Under your breath, you agree, "I can't wait."

It's a promise.

* * *

Finding him is easy.

Men like this don't keep low profiles. They don't take any kind of precautions. Sometimes you're surprised that they even lock their doors at night, because they think so highly of themselves, they believe themselves to possess such a resolute control of the world around them, that they forget how vulnerable they can actually become. They walk the earth as if they're on the pinnacle of the globe at every given moment.

Because of that, when a gift wrapped bottle of scotch is left in front of their door, it's so easy for them to believe in its harmless presentation. All it takes is a carefully penned congratulatory note pinned to the front, a stroke of their ego, because after all, they will always believe that they're entitled to such things.

Who would second guess something so rightfully deserved?

So he takes the bait, kicking the front door closed carelessly—not bothering to lock it—before walking back into the foyer. That part doesn't matter much, you're already in the house. You've already caught him. From here it can play out one of two ways; he can drink from the laced scotch as many selfish men do and pass out within a moment, or he can tinker around his home until you get the right angle, and drive your taser into the back of his neck.

Either is fine with you. You're not picky.

This man is the indulgent variety and is hitting the ground ahead of your schedule. That's good. You'd like to take your time with this one.

It's not long before he's in the chair and you've already started dinner. Everything is in place and you are euphoric in your ritual. You don't have a single care in the world, nothing matters beyond the walls of this house. Your mind is at peace in a way you can only dream of when you're in the _real_ world, a way you long to get back to with every conscious moment of your existence when you're in that _real_ world.

You sing a silly tune in your serenity, "What a dream of a kitchen come true…"

This moment, when the whimpers of a crying man harmonize with a nineteen-fifties jingle, the world is as it should be in your eyes. You spin to the opposite countertop, smiling a little when your dress flairs at the bottom and your hair does the same. That dainty little smile doesn't take away from the weight of the meat cleaver in your hand.

"…What a wonderful setting for you."

* * *

Dinner is served.

The creep from the parking garage doesn't look too thrilled. He shrivels back into the seat as you approach and it's cute that he thinks he can get away from you. With care, you place his meal in front of him.

"I've made your favorite."

You marvel at the look in his eyes, the fervent desperation, the bead of sweat running down his face. He's disgustingly frightened, shaking in the best sport coat you could find to doll him up in. One thing is off, and you turn to wet your gloved fingertips in a glass of water on the table spread. With a teasing pace, you turn back to him and lift your hand to his head. He ducks and bends and squirms, but it's all for not.

You smooth his hair to the side; nice and tidy.

Only then do you truly appreciate your work.

_It's marvelous._

"Ah," you hiss, swatting reflexively at the painful pinch on your neck.

_It's empowering._

You had been expecting a bug of some sort, not the hand and the cylindrical object they're pressing into your neck—a syringe.

_It's…_ all going black.

* * *

You come back into the world groggy and oddly comfortable, all things considered. When you lift your head, a small pillow falls to the ground. It's strange. You glare at the thing on the ground, so confused as to why it's in a plastic bag. Why is there a plastic covered pillow, why are you in a chair, why can't you move your arms—why is_she_ here?

And what the hell is she doing to your mark?

"What the fuck?"

The stenographer doesn't even flinch, she finishes pushing that hooked needle through the man's upper lip. Her gloved fingers tie a neat knot, adding one more stitch to his whimpering mouth.

You cannot believe this.

Tina Cohen-Chang, the woman you've traded idle coffee conversation with for years, has taken you captive and is assaulting your mark. She's sitting on his lap, sewing his mouth shut, and you're trapped in a chair, very much like him.

You test the bindings on your arms with a new fervor, muttering, "What the fuck—what the hell?"

She glances at you then, and asks a question you don't expect, "Did you only make enough food for him?"

You can't fathom to answer, instead you bite the inside of your cheek to make sure this isn't some dream.

"Because it smells great," Tina compliments with a kind smile. "Is it poisoned?"

Still drunk from her drugs, your eyes struggle to stay open when you try to meet her gaze, "No, not in the recipe."

"I bet you take your recipes very seriously," she gives you a slow once over. "A regular June Cleaver."

Banter aside, you have to know, "What are you doing here?"

She turns back to the man in the chair, taking his face in her hands. He flinches back, but she holds tight. Even through your haze you can feel the intensity of her focus, a dark spirit you're all too familiar with. The man can feel it too, his terrified eyes, pale clamor, and hard breathing tells you that much.

She's been _torturing_ him.

"We're both here for the same thing."

"Then why am I tied to a chair?" you grumble, tossing your hair out of your face. It makes your head spin.

"Minor precaution," Tina takes up her needle. "I wasn't expecting anyone else in the house and a night like this can get messy when things don't go according to plan. I didn't mean to ruin your dinner party, but I wasn't sure how you'd react to me crashing it."

You understand completely, you're not even sure how you'd react if she had announced herself while you were in the middle of your ritual. It wouldn't have been pretty, of that you're sure. In an odd way, you're impressed. When she realized that someone besides else was in the house, she moved to incapacitate them instead of calling it off all together. She got the jump on you and she did it well.

She's _like_ you.

"If you had called ahead, I would have put needlepoint on this evening's agenda," you watch her wrench the man's face into position, he lets out a small pleading sob. "When did… did you realize it was me?"

"When did I realize _you_ were the unexpected guest or when did I realize that you were here to kill him?"

There it is—someone has finally vocalized the night's main event. In a small act of defiance, and because she allowed you the ability, you cross your legs and tilt your head, waiting stubbornly.

"I spied on you in the kitchen for a good ten minutes before I realized why you were in this house," her smile is almost embarrassed. "Imagine my surprise."

You watch her raise her needle to the man's lips, you see him strain against her hand, how much pressure she applies before the hooked sliver of metal breaks the skin—and you watch her smile softly the entire time.

The last of the fog is clearing in your head, and you use the new found clarity to get a sense of your surroundings. Virtually everything is still in place; your bindings are still on his hands and legs, your table is set exactly how you left it, she never touched any of that. The only change is her presence, the blood on his chin, and her tool kit.

"Cute bag."

"You like it?" she perks up in the same way women get excited about talking about shoes. "Meehan utility. Worth every penny."

It sits on the table, the worn leather colored a drab olive. It isn't the most innocent looking thing. You wonder if the hooked needle she's playing with has any friends. You're still trying to wrap your head around how this is actually happening. Tina Cohen-Chang drugged you, tied you to a chair, and is now sewing a man's mouth shut. It's very obvious that this isn't the first time she's done it, either.

_She's like you._

So in all reality, she could kill you too. You're at a severe disadvantage, tied to the chair as you are. You're in a kill seat.

Mind racing, you're looking for a way out. She didn't bind your feet. That's a small but limited grace. She also… she put a pillow on your shoulder so your neck wouldn't get sore. She even covered it in plastic so there would be no trace evidence left.

Is this protective behavior?

You have no idea what her motivations might be. If anything, she should be excited that there's someone here to pin the murder on. Or are her intentions darker than that? Whatever the answers, you know this won't end well—and there's very little you can do about it.

So you sit quietly, projecting a small semblance of boredom and… try to enjoy the show.

* * *

She ties her last stitch with this pleased little smile, like she's tying the bow on a beautifully wrapped present and she just can't wait to see the recipient's face when they open it.

Tina basks in her work and you would appreciate the elegance of it—the neat stitches, perfectly even spacing, how the blood gleams brightly in the candlelight—if you weren't going out of your mind tied to this seat.

Droplets roll down his trembling chin, the little rivers collect at the bottom, clinging to each other until the blood inevitably falls. Red speckles decorate his shirt front—_his tie_—and the material drinks it in; thirsty in such a way… it mirrors your own bloodlust.

This cloth is your very soul, and it's so very crooked.

"His tie," you implore from between your teeth, hands pulling against the restraints like you'd do it yourself if they weren't bound to the chair. "Please, if you would fix his tie."

She probably sees the restlessness in your eyes, the strain in your arms. She's like you, she knows that certain things have to be… just right. It's part of your method, your practice, this is very important to you. She's not only hijacked your mark but—she's invaded your _sanctum_ and altered _everything_ and made you sit by and _watch_.

The man is not the only one being tortured here.

She has to understand that.

Dark eyes shift to the accessory in question. Surely she can see how misplaced the knot is, how it has slipped from the collar band and flounders near the left collar point? Certainly she would comprehend how that could bother a person—that this small detail is enough to make a person's blood boil and their teeth grind.

Or maybe that's just you?

Either way, you'd very much like to kill someone right now.

Then she hooks the needle under a stitch in the man's quivering lip for safekeeping, and reaches for the tie. She doesn't take it in her hand like you had expected her to. No, at first she studies it. One gloved fingertip runs along the subtle design in the cloth. It's a good tie, a dark lavender overcheck on a Kelly green silk. The quality of the tie far outweighs the man it's complimenting.

She seems to realize that.

When you watch her gain control of the fabric, capturing it between her fingers and thumb—she's quite nearly taken control over you as well. Her hand runs the length of the cloth, climbing higher and higher to the knot and a chill runs up your spine as if each thread she touches were your own vertebrae. Her other hand closes around the knot—your knot, the one you tied yourself, the weapon you chose to kill this man—and you feel her hand on your throat.

And your heart beats wildly against it—for it.

Her gloved hands are delicate and precise, they tighten the knot with a grace and effort you are very much appreciative of. When the knot finds its rightful place in against the collar band, you can't seem to breathe. Your face is flush and your hands might be bleeding from the force of your nails digging into your palms. Then she makes it worse, dragging her fingers slowly down the tie, flattening it against the pressed shirt underneath.

The man she's sitting on lets out a broken whimper, sputtering flecks of blood onto white cloth framing the tie and her hand. It's… it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

You lift your eyes to hers. You have no doubt she's been watching you squirm the entire time. It's no mystery that she's the one in control here.

"The color, it matches your eyes," she taps the neck of the tie, "almost perfectly."

Tina stands, leaving her captive shaking and unsteady in the chair. If it hadn't been for zip-ties he might have fallen right to the floor.

She sets her tools down on the table, and her hand reaches for her bag. You suspect she's going for another trinket of pain, maybe this time intended for you, but it's just a bottle of water. Torture can be slightly tiring, no matter how thrilling. Leaning against the table, she peels off her black gloves and looks at you.

It's best to keep from squirming under her gaze.

Slowly, she moves towards you. It's a natural thing, to press yourself against the back of the chair as she slides herself onto your lap, mimicking the way she straddled her victim and in a rare moment, you're actually _nervous_, hands straining against the zip-ties behind you. You're not sure if you're weary of her potential to kill you or if it's… how close she is, sitting on your lap like this—strong legs framing your hips like this, dark eyes boring into yours like this, soft fingers touching your cheek like this.

Then her eyes fall to watch her thumb drag its way across your bottom lip.

Is she thinking about stitching you up? Driving her needle through your skin? Decorating your dress in red speckles? Or is there something else clouding her eyes, something else drawing her closer? Your heart is racing in a way it hasn't since, well, since your last kill. She's inspiring all sorts of things in you. It feels hot in here, your skin prickling with an odd sweat.

When her thumb gets to the corner of your mouth you say what's been on your mind since you woke, "You're like me."

"How did we miss it?" she looks genuinely baffled. "I mean, I always knew there was something special about you, Quinn."

Her thumb starts its second, sensually slow, sweep across your lip.

"You're so beautiful and so smart," she tells you quietly, "but I can feel it inside you, and see behind your eyes. The way you watch the people around you… just waiting for them to give you a reason."

You try to ignore the way your face is burning and ask, "What do you have planned for me?"

Her eyes light up, so amused, "Are you scared?"

You can feel your eyebrows knit, not liking that word at all, "I'm realistic. Clean work means no witnesses."

She smiles, still refusing to answer your question, "Tell me about him."

You're not sure what she means, but then again, you know exactly what she means. So you give her the obvious, "We both know he deserves to die."

"I'm sure that depends on who you ask," she studies you, ignoring the batch of sobs that escape from her captive—her _other,_ not so composed, captive.

Palms sweaty and eyes defiant, you keep your mouth shut in a tight frown.

"If you are… who I think you are," she looks at you—and touches you—like she can't believe you're there. The eager light behind her eyes, the tremble in her fingertips, you feel like she's just found a shiny new toy, "Then we both know you prefer men who've killed their wives, and Mr. Austin here, has never been married."

Of course, _you know that_.

This man isn't in your usual demographic, he has no wife lost to unfavorable circumstances or odd accidents. He's very rude to prostitutes, has a few assault charges swept under the rug, but there's no wedding ring on his finger, and you fancy yourself the personification of a retaliate homemaker.

"I think he's special to you."

And that compulsion might have cost you everything.

"He's just another man in a chair," you send him a disdainful glance, for appearances sake.

Her head tilts curiously to the side, and her eyes shine with amusement, "Did you target him because of what happened at the parking garage?"

You exhale sharply through your nose and give her the best glare you can muster—it comes out more of a grumble, "Don't flatter yourself."

"But I _am_ flattered," Tina laughs, the same laugh you hear in the courthouse, the same shining eyes you find at coffee shops, but it all seems so much vibrant now, that you're exposed like this—now that you can see each other for who you really are.

How she squeezes your arm is new, a kind of lingering touch that she wouldn't dare try before now—she's emboldened by her control, liberated by her power, "You targeted this guy because of me? That's the sweetest thing. No one's ever done anything like that for me before."

The man in the chair starts crying.

She leans close, until her front is pushing against yours, and her hand is on the back of your neck, and her lips are just a warm breath away from your ear, "If I let you go, will you still do that for me?"

After a short moment you're able to answer, "You… don't want to do it?"

"I've had my fun," her fingers curl into the short hair at the base of your neck, sending your calculating thoughts out the window, "I'd really like to see you work first hand."

"You're not going to kill me?"

Tina pulls back then, but only just enough to give you this look—it's serious and sincere and she asks the most relevant question, "If I was in the chair, would you kill me?"

You tell her the truth, "I wouldn't want to."

There are no absolutes in this business; you've never killed a woman—forget trying to kill one you've known for two years and consider a friend—but you can't deny your capacity to do what you must.

Tina is a smart enough to see all the angles. You know she's realized the odds of this backfiring on her. She knows, clean work doesn't leave witnesses. There are secrets to be lost here, risks to be taken, and in light of all that, she graces you with a sympathetic smile, "I don't want to have to kill you either, Quinn. So, how about… a gesture of good faith?"

In an odd demonstration of that, she draws a knife from her pocket. You watch her thumb the blade open in the small space between your bodies. She leans forward again and reaching around, she slides her hand down one of your forearms, the back of her knife running along the other.

The cold metal chills the skin it touches while your face warms under her eyes.

This isn't the Tina you know from around the court room, the timid woman that records the evils of the world for a living. This is something completely different, she's dancing as her demon, and this demon likes touching you. There's a control factor to it that you understand. You have no power to stop her so she takes the liberty, knowing it unnerves you, enjoying the way you squirm.

The tip of her blade slips under the thick plastic zip-ties and with a little pressure, she's released you.

"Sharp knife," you bring your hands forward slowly, fully aware of who's still in charge.

"I have dull ones too," she toys with the words, "but those serve a different purpose."

"I never took you as the torture type."

"Who's the one that makes her victims smell this wonderful food but doesn't let them eat it?"

You flush at the compliment, focusing on rubbing feeling back into your wrists so she might not notice. She does, and traces the curve of your cheek with the point of her knife, just to make sure you know. You stay very still, keeping her eyes in a silent challenge.

There's a fire pitching in your stomach, your own monster stirring inside and itching to get back some control.

"I hope you don't only cook last meals."

"You should come over this weekend and find out," your offer is quiet, "as a gesture of good faith?"

The way her head tilts slightly, in her own little pleasantly bashful quirk, is more like the Tina you know from real life. She bites her lip, putting her knife away, "I'd like that."

Then she slips off your lap, plucks a fresh pair of gloves out of her bag, and walks back to the captive. You're glad that her attention is on someone else because with the blood rushing back into your legs, you're slow to stand.

Tina snaps on the gloves, stalking around the chair, watching the man cower. She chuckles, finding him as amusing as you find him pathetic. Standing off his shoulder, she toys with him; smoothing his hair, brushing non-existent lint off his jacket, touching his lapel.

Then Tina catches your eye, shifting so she's right behind him, arms reaching over his shoulders. You have to take hold of the table to steady yourself when she pinches the knot of that beautiful tie between her fingers and tightens it against his collar.

Your heart skips. She's toying with you again and you're not sure if you like it—you think you do.

Tina lifts a single eyebrow in invitation and you take it. Each step you take towards him is a moment closer to the death of this man, and he knows it. That's probably one of your favorite parts to this entire thing—watching them resign to their fate. The epiphany they have when they realize they have no way out, this is going to happen.

You are going to kill them.

There are tears in his eyes, glistening shards of desperation. He lets out an unintelligible murmur from behind Tina's stitches, perhaps asking for mercy. You sort of like how it sounds, muffled and painful, how the now drying blood stains his face. You like Tina's work.

When you lift your eyes to hers you admit, "I've never had an audience before."

"Shy?"

"Not at all," you move even closer and reach out, softly pushing her hands away from his tie so you can fix it yourself. You keep her dark eyes and take the knot of fabric in one hand, the tail of the tie in the other.

Such a beautiful piece of fabric.

The man tests his restrains again, a small, useless act of anxiety. He whimpers, shaking his head, and breathing shallowly through his nose. You let him breathe for a moment, drawing it out, this pause of anticipation. He knows what's about to happen, and while Tina might enjoy the physical torture, you have this one vice.

You like looking into their eyes, demure smile in place, and denying them the one thing they want most in that moment—their life.

You won't give it to them, you won't spare them.

You will have no compassion.

You tighten the knot, a slow pressure, controlled and deliberate—you cinch the material beyond the point of a proper fit. You tighten the knot until your knuckle is digging into his throat and you feel the strain in your forearms.

He thrashes—as they always do—trying so hard to go out with a fight. Sputtering against the stitches, his lips tear and bleed fresh blood. His face turns a flush red at first, eyes wide and desperate, they scramble around madly.

You've always wondered what they look for. Are they just trying to avoid your face? Is it simply a muscle spasm? Seeing their life replay in their mind's eye?

Are they looking for their god?

His chest trembles, face turning an sickly purple, and his body writhes.

And you tighten the knot.

You watch the last of his struggle fade, the moment his eyes lose their focus, and the world around you slows. All you can hear is this man's last mangled cry, all you can feel is the way your heart is blustering in your chest, pounding a nearly triumphant rhythm against your ribs. You are alive, this man is not, and the final bit of his life was smothered at your will.

This skin on your arms prickles, and you feel light, like you could just float away.

You feel free.

Absently, Tina's hands come into focus in the corner of your eyes. She's clutching his jacket so tightly. When you look up her eyes are so bright and her face is flush. You wonder what it's like to watch, if it gives her the same rush as if she would have done it herself. You'd like to ask her about it.

You'd like to watch her sometime.

A warm blush spreads over your face, suddenly so exposed. What does she see? Can she tell how much you enjoy this? How you need it?

Then she catches a fistful of your dress and pulls you forward. It's instinctual, the way your hand snaps up and closes around her throat—you hadn't meant to threaten her, but you're not exactly yourself right now, still riding this feral high. She doesn't pull away from you, in fact, she leans into your biting fingers, still tugging your forward. There's a hunger in her eyes, bloodlust? Does she want to kill—no.

It's not your blood she wants.

You nearly trip, catching yourself on the dead man's shoulder to keep from toppling over him as her lips press against yours. _Now_ you are shy, she can probably feel how your fingers tremble around her neck, hear the startled gasp that slipped out, but she's just as poised with her lips as her hands are with a needle.

Something inside you quakes. Your heartbeat stutters and those wondrously primal feelings inspired by your kill… they churn deep inside you, swirling together, mixing and morphing into something you're not familiar with, it's burning in your stomach, flushing through your veins, and urging you on.

No, this is not your old friend, bloodlust.

You don't want this woman dead.

You _want_ her—alive and well and kissing you like this.

She's moving around the chair, your hand still on her throat and hers still clutching your dress. The way Tina kisses you, takes your waist in her hands to guide you, makes you forget the chair she's pushing you into has a dead body in it—actually, it trills you. You sit haphazardly on his lap and shudder when those hands run up your sides, graze past your chest with a feather light touch, then all the way back down to the place where your skirt has hiked chaotically across your thighs.

She runs her teeth across you lip and your eyes squeeze shut even tighter, trying to keep from making the noise bubbling in your throat.

"I can't believe it's you," Tina whispers a hot breath along your cheek, kissing that spot just below your ear, "I can't believe this—I've wanted to meet you since I read about the Harrison murder—"

Your hand drops to her shoulder and you push her away, searching her face breathlessly, "Please tell me that's not what this is about."

She looks confused for a moment, but you don't know how to say it any other way.

_If you are who I think you are._

_A regular June Cleaver._

_I'd really like to see you work first hand._

You won't ask if she's more attracted to you as a killer, or you as a woman.

"Okay, yeah, I'm a huge fan of your work," she bites her lip, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. Despite yourself you twitch a little at her touch, the way her fingers slide down your neck to rest on your shoulder. "But I'm an even bigger fan of you, Quinn. Just you."

Your thumb slips into the hollow under her collar bone, and the breath you had been holding slips out in a sigh.

"I've actually tried to ask you out about three times now," she drops her eyes to her hands in the way you know her to do when she doesn't have latex gloves on and there's a lifeless body in the room, "but I don't think you realized my intention."

That throws you, and a rush of memories come back to you; the couple of nights you've went to dinner together and the art gallery she's invited you to because she through you'd enjoy it—you did of course. Where did you miss signs? Are you really that disconnected to the world around you?

"Tina, I—"

"It's okay," she laughs softly, kissing your forehead, "we always had a great time. I knew you we're pretty career focused, and now I understand completely."

"Dating is tricky for people like us," you shift, touching her thighs in a silent request for space. She obliges and even offers her hand to help you up from the man's lap. "Too many secrets, you know."

"I do," she frowns slightly, and goes to drop your hand now that you're on your feet.

You don't let her.

"It so happens that, as of tonight, you know more about me than anyone else in the world so…" you intertwine your gloved fingers and hope for bravery, "how about we wrap up here, go to my place, and have a glass of wine?"

Tina's smile gives you the answer you were looking for.

"Just one last thing."

You let go of her hand to turn back to your victim, and with a delicate care, you ease the knot of his tie lose and free it from the sweat-stale collar. You're sympathetic to the cloth, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in the places it's warped from the trauma. With a tender hand you fold it carefully and tuck it away for safe keeping.

Tina doesn't say a word through your last formality.

She understands.

And that feels as significant as a new tie for your collection.


End file.
